


a study in emotions

by donutcats



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, from merlin's pov, it's basically a character study on arthur, lots of italics and bordering on poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:58:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9231863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: Merlin genuinely loves his literature class.Except for now, because his professor has declared, with the surety of a man sentencing you to death and being completely content with your horrified expression, that they were to do a character study.Which is how Merlin finds himself sitting in the living room of Arthur Pendragon's flat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'm not completely sure where this idea came from, and while I'm not entirely happy with the pacing in a few scenes, if I stare at this fic any longer I'm p sure I'm going to lose my mind. it is what it is and I'm more or less happy with the outcome. enjoy!

Sometimes Merlin deeply regrets wanting to major in literature.

Oh yes, it has its perks, and Merlin loves to write. Words are sort of like magic, when he can get them just right. Words tend to fill his head, and they never sound the same when he says them out loud. But on paper, or on screen, that’s when he can meld them into something worthwhile.  
  
And the whole learning in a classroom thing, can help, most of the time. Because it makes him strive to be better, to write things that he's not embarrassed to show off. Things that he’s proud to call his own. He can talk to other people that feel the same, that have words at the tips of their tongue and they’re always trying to get them out.  
  
All in all, Merlin genuinely loves his literature class.  
  
Except for now, because his professor has declared, with the surety of a man sentencing you to death and being completely content with your horrified expression, that they were to do a character study.  
  
Merlin had no problem with that, he was great at character studies. Writing out all the flaws of a character and turning their struggles into something just left of poetry. But Mr. Kilgharrah thought it would be amusing to tack on, "Not about a fictional character, but about your partner who you have been working with for the last few weeks."  
  
Which is how Merlin finds himself sitting in the living room of Arthur Pendragon's flat.

Merlin sits, with his legs drawn close to his chest, notebook pressed to his knees as he scribbles down the various thoughts that cropped up the moment he stepped foot into this very personal space for Arthur.  
  
A bunch of different things caught his attention, as he was welcomed in, told to take his shoes off at the door, and offered tea, all in a slightly clipped tone.  
  
Arthur and him, don’t particularly get along. They do just fine in the classroom, with other students and the watchful gaze of the professor fondly referred to as the great dragon. Sure, they bicker, they debate, they scrunch their faces up when the other is being rather obtuse, but everything always seems diluted while sitting at a table discussing a project that was laid before them.  
  
On the few occasions they’ve been alone, walking from class or bumping into each other on campus, well that’s a different story. Something about Arthur just makes Merlin want to argue, to stand his ground and knock Arthur down from whatever high horse he seems to be glued to.

They agreed to a civil sort of truce between them, or else they both knew that hardly any work would get done, instead spending their time glaring or snapping at each other.

 _neat freak. probably washes his darks seperate- separate. from his whites. very clear lion motif. who needs that many mugs ?? he wears a ring on his left hand, something silver that glints and catches in the sunlight, he touches it to his mouth sometimes, when he's thinking, maybe it makes thinking easier?? have to ask where he got it if that's not too personal-_  
  
"Merlin, I have no idea what you're chicken scratching out, but I can assure you there's no need to write a full dissertation on how you perceive all of my dark secrets. I doubt Kilgharrah intended for it to be that deep." Arthur says, in that way of his, a drawl that's just shy of being irritated. He's sitting at the small table between living room and kitchen, a notebook of his own opened and settled amongst other text books.  
  
Merlin makes a face, shifts and burrows further into the couch corner. "I'm just writing what I've observed, Arthur. I doubt I could get too deep with anything having to do with you, since you most closely resemble a puddle."  
  
"That was the most round about way of saying the age old 'you're as deep as a puddle' that I have ever heard."  
  
"Oh sod off. I bet you wrote really obvious things about me."

Arthur stretches, _like a cat_ , Merlin thinks, and then writes. "Hm, let's see. _Messy, clumsy, would probably lose his own head if it wasn't attached to his body. Ironically enough, barely listens even with the size of his ears._ Yes, very obvious. What do you have for me?"  
  
Merlin looks down at the words, and knows for a fact he's probably taking this much more serious than most people will. Flipping to a new page, he writes even as he speaks. " _Spoiled, entitled, a very pompous prat, bully. Probably doesn't know how much a banana costs, would probably kill himself before setting foot into a Poundland._ Obviously."  
  
"I'll have you know, that I don't even _eat_ bananas, so of course I wouldn't care how much they cost.”

Maybe ‘civil’ has a different meaning for them.

 

\---

 

 _I genuinely don't think he knows how much a banana would cost. I don't think he's willingly stepped foot into a grocery store ever. I mean, why would he? he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, with a trust fund ready before he was born. his last name breeds a dynasty, so why would he ever need to buy simple things for himself?_  
  
_he's arrogant as well, he acts as if just being who he is grants him some sort of leeway in the world. sadly, I think it does. people hear the name Pendragon and they trip over themselves to try and make him smile. I find it easier to ignore the name and just make him press his lips together as if he doesn't completely know what to make of me._  
  
_I trip over myself enough as it is, without having to add in the need to impress him._  
  
_I wonder if he knows how to be humble. if he's ever had to be humble in his life. or has that also been served to him on a platter, obviously silver plated. humility is nothing more than a concept to him, he doesn't know how to live with the prospect of being less important than the world has built him up to be. Arthur has been placed on a pedestal since before he can remember I'm sure._  
  
_his pedestal is dipped in silver as well, I suppose. or gold. the silver spoon and platter metaphors are the most common, but everything about Arthur oozes gold. Arthur is the golden boy, head to toe. when he smiles it's worth at least 24 karats._  
  
_I don't think Arthur realizes gold is one of the softest metals. it’s highly coveted, fought over, worth the most, but it's still soft underneath all the hype and bravado._  
_  
I want to spin metaphors about a golden heart, but it's difficult when all he's done to me is insult relentlessly. there might be some gold there, possibly. maybe. I'd like to believe so, because it would perfectly fit the rest of the theme, and I would hate for him to be a golden boy with a rusting copper heart._

 

\---

 

_the more time I spend with him, the more I see the smoke and mirrors slide away. with each layer, with each mask removed, there’s another glint of gold. not the surface gold that he seems covered with, a thin sheen to give the impression that he’s perfection._

_no, it’s a purer gold, not airbrushed on. it runs bone deep and I catch glimpses of it every time he lets a real smile crack through, every time he unthinkably does something kind. I saw it when he helped carry things up to Gwen’s new dorm without even being asked. a flash of it glimmered in the sun when he genuinely laughed at one of Gwaine’s terrible jokes._

_he’s golden through and through and through. and I don’t think he realizes it. not yet._

_I see his fingertips glint as he wordlessly hands me his favorite mug filled with tea, three sugars already added._

 

_\---_

 

_he could be a king. in another life he was. I can see it, Arthur sitting on a throne back lit by stained glass, a crown atop his head and the expression of a man who has seen far too much for his age._

_uneasy lies the head that wears a crown._

Strikethrough. Directly quoting Shakespeare seems like it’s erring on plagiarism.  
  
_heavy lies the crown._  
  
_heavy lies the weight of a future you have no control over. heavy lies the responsibilities._

“Why are you laying on the floor?” Arthur’s voice cuts through the sound of ink against paper, as he raises an eyebrow and deftly steps over Merlin’s prone body.  
  
Merlin tries to reach out, to catch at the edge of Arthur’s pants to trip him up, but he’s too quick. “It helps me think.”

There’s a hum in response, and the sound of the television flicking to life. “You need all the help you can get.” The channels flash by, as he searches for something to watch. It’s muted, and Merlin let’s himself fantasize that the quiet is out of respect towards Merlin trying to concentrate.  
  
_what is a king with no one to preside over. what is a king with no lands. with no merits other than spending time exploring the endless rooms of a castle alone, of putting plasters on his own scraped knees and later his sisters when no one else would._

_a king who trusts too easily, yet keeps most at arm's length._

_it doesn’t seem like much of a king. yet, there’s something about him, about this boy king who dimples when he smiles, that makes you swear fealty, makes you willing to follow him into the mouth of hell._

“Are you going to spend all afternoon writing about how beautiful my eyes are, or are we going to watch some terrible American movies and eat pizza? Like we planned, _Mer_ lin.”

With a sigh, Merlin heaves himself off the floor, padding to the couch and curling up in the corner, notebook tucked between his legs and his chest. “Your eyes are not beautiful.” The reply is a minute or so late, but Arthur laughs all the same, head thrown back against the couch.

_with only mild complaining._

 

\---

 

 _he's like. the sun. he's so bright and you just find yourself drifting towards him, orbiting around his bright smiles and warm words. I forget sometimes, how likeable he can be when he's around other people. it's like, when we're alone he's different. he says what he thinks and what he feels and never once thinks about how his words can be perceived- but when others are around. he's Arthur Pendragon, who commands respect with just his presence, who tries to give everyone a bit of his attention, who censors his thoughts._  
  
_he's like the sun. he's consistent. he's always there and you never question it, because you just know. when you close your eyes you can almost feel the warmth of his smile on your skin, and you can spend all day with his attention solely on you. but he can burn, too. if you're not careful he can scorch you, leave your skin and your emotions raw and blistered. he doesn't mean to, but_  
_  
I think it's just a reaction, something he doesn't even realize he's doing. I've met his dad. I've met his sister. he takes his emotions and turns them outwards. he takes everything he feels and just, turns it into anger because it's easier. he lashes out because the reaction he gets is easier to deal with. he can handle people being angry back. he can handle an argument._

 _I'm pretty sure him and his father communicate in nothing but clipped tones and passive aggression. him and Morgana too. there's a softer edge tho, with Morgana, but it's still there._  
_  
I dont think Arthur knows how to be soft, not in the ways that count. he's a sun, he's a scorching summer day, he's the waves of heat that ripple off the tarmac. and maybe he knows how, but he never knows when to be the gentle warmth on a spring day, or the sunbeams that slant through windows and pick out the lazy dust motes._

 

\---

 

 _the ring is his mother's. she died when he was born. I told him about my own father, about his need to explore the world before he even laid eyes on his son. that's neither here nor there, I'm not writing about myself, that's for Arthur to pick apart and dissect and put words to how he thinks I feel about it._  
  
_like I'm doing with him. the ring is his mother's, who died when he was born, and how unlucky it is to have a birthday that is also a reminder of something you lost. while other kids look forward to their birthday, to presents and cake to celebrate them being alive, all Arthur has to look forward to is a day filled with silences, presents bought more out of tradition- out of obligation._  
  
_I told him when his birthday comes around next, I cant wait to throw him a party. I dont know where that came from, I hope that we'll still be friends once this is over, but it felt like something that needed to be said. something that has nothing to do with his solemn father and rebellious half-sister. Morgana never knew Ygraine, Morgana has no connections to her, nothing tethering her to a ghost. but she's still a reminder of the absence._  
  
_I was right, before. the ring helps him think. he fiddles with it, sometimes, runs it along his mouth. it gives him something to do, something to focus on. it's the only thing left to remember her by. he thinks a lot, I've realized, a lot more than I ever gave him credit for. he's always thinking, when he's not moving, when he's not doing something to take his mind off of whatever thoughts he's tangled himself into. he's a quiet thinker, the type that introspects and stares out windows._  
_  
I'm surprised Arthur says he isn't the type to write poetry, that he gets it but doesn't really enjoy it. he seems like the type. the type that writes about his thoughts and weaves them into flowing words that taste almost lyrical and strike something in you bone deep_

 

_\---_

 

 _Arthur loves in ways that don't seem normal, conventional. some people would call it cold, detached, rude. I blame it on his upbringing._  
  
_he loves Morgana, he really does. I can see it whenever they spend more than ten minutes together. it's a love that's born out of the survival of two kids who only have each other to grasp to. children who can only find love and acceptance when they look at each other. they might be half siblings, but they never refer to each other as such. they're siblings. full stop. Morgana is his sister and there's nothing more to it._  
  
_Arthur loves the only way he knows how, with snippy comments that border on caring, and small actions that don't call for any attention. Arthur will shove an umbrella at your face and tell you how likely it is to rain, and how he'd hate to see you walk in looking like a drowned rat. he yells at you to eat because you haven't all day and he won't admit it but he worries. he calls you names, ranging from teasing to fond._  
  
_Arthur loves the most in his silences, in the quiet way he does things. he cares because he doesn't say anything as he holds the door open for you, he cares because he silently puts a hand to your back and steers you in the correct direction when you're obviously this close to becoming lost. he cares because he wordlessly hands you a mug of tea with the exact number of sugars in it._  
_  
Arthur loves with his whole heart. he jumps in the deep end feet first. he trusts easily and hopes for the best, and he doesn't blame anyone but himself when he begins to drown._

 

_\---_

 

 _I think, Arthur doesn't know who he is. or well, who he wants to be. he has ideas for himself, I've heard them all, under a string of fairy lights in a quaint little bar. they're big ideas, they're good ideas. they highlight all the ways that Arthur Pendragon is a good man. but, he's also being pulled being dragged into the direction that his father wants._  
  
_he wants to be good, but he wants to be accepted. he wants and he wants and he wants. he doesn't know what he wants, not really. not any farther than just 'I want more.' he wants to be free, wants to forge his own path and hold things in his hands that he himself has earned. but then his father speaks and frowns and expects, and arthur buckles arthur cracks and he just wants to be enough._  
  
_I think we need to have another conversation, maybe this time over chinese food, sprawled on a very cream colored carpet with a lion blanket balled between us. he needs to know, or at the least hear. he needs to hear that sometimes what you want and what you need are different._  
  
_he wants to live up to every expectation his father has heaved onto his shoulders, but is that what he needs? he wants to go around the world and be charitable and give back, but is that what he needs? maybe all he needs is to worry about himself._  
_  
maybe Arthur Pendragon needs to learn how to be a bit selfish. to lock himself away with something that makes him happy and not worry about consequences._

 

_\---_

 

 _hoping wanting dreaming, feeling, always feeling. Arthur is made up of emotions that swirl and twist, overlap each other. he's always feeling but he never lets himself feel. everything is locked up tight, thrown in a box and tossed under a bed._  
  
_emotions are weakness, probably, in his eyes. in his father's eyes. he can't feel, he can't be more than a machine. he needs to work he needs to be liked he needs needs needs to be perfect or else. or else._  
  
_Arthur deals in gruff words and snapping insults, he deals in anger because it's easy because his father is angry because it's an emotion he can feel with no repercussions. he can deal, he can feel. feel anger and sadness but the sadness is buried deep, deeper than most but it leaks out, it leaks out easier than most. happiness comes and goes but it simmers at the surface, easy enough to dip into when he needs to pretend when he needs to act. and Arthur is a good actor._  
  
_he deserves an award, a grammy an oscar a golden globe a bafta he deserves them all, because he owns so many masks and he switches them out seamlessly. Arthur wraps himself in so many different disguises that you never know who the real Arthur is. you need to learn on your own, you need to want to know._  
_  
I think I know, I hope I know. I think I need to stop writing now because it's 4:30am and words feel like liquid now, dripping out of me onto the paper onto the screen onto whatever I can reach, and I can't do anything but think of Arthur think of how he feels, and it's exhausting._

_  
\---_

 

 _I love him. I love him. I love_  
  
_Arthur. I love Arthur. it's confusing and complicated and I never thought writing about him in this way would make me see him, really see him, see beyond the masks he carries around. but I do, I see him and I love him. how can I not? he's like the sun, like a lion. he's gentle and courageous and he makes me want. a lot of things. he makes me want love._  
  
_I keep forgetting this isn't about me, this isn't a diary. this is about Arthur, it's always been about Arthur. it's about the way he makes a person feel worthy. just because he exists, just because he smiles and listens and understands. he makes you want, more for yourself. makes you realize you're worth more._  
  
_I love you._

 

\---

 

Merlin turns in his paper, his character study on Arthur. He doesn't title it anything fancy, anything funny, not in the way he's heard other people talk about. There's nothing clever or funny to say. It started as a character study and somehow turned into a confession.  
  
He kept that part in, which maybe wasn't the best idea. He kept everything in, only cleaning up some of the bits, because. Well that's just the way Merlin writes. He writes what he feels, and if what he feels is too messy than what's the point? Feelings and writing are supposed to be messy, supposed to make you _feel_ . So, he left it all in, from the beginning paragraphs of calling Arthur arrogant and self-absorbed, to the 4:30am entry, and even to the ending, the confession.  
  
Merlin's probably going to regret it. A very strong probably. But he can't just cut it out, it feels like cutting off a part of him. He's turning it in how it is and if Professor Kilgharrah doesn't like it then well- fuck it.  
  
Days pass by, which are filled with studying for other classes and hanging out with Arthur because apparently they're proper best friends now which, well Merlin won't complain about. The second week after Merlin turned his anthology on Arthur in, they finally get their papers back.  
  
He printed his out like a manuscript of a book, the papers crisp and bound orderly, the title stark against the top sheet.  
  
_A Study of Arthur Pendragon,_  
_a modern day king,_ _  
by Merlin Emrys._

Merlin stares at it, fiddles with the edges, listens as Kilgharrah drones on about wording and how certain people didn't take it as seriously as he would have hoped. (Gwaine laughs, sharp and high, and it pulls a small smile from Merlin.)  
  
"Now," his deep voice rings clear, making Merlin raise his head to look forward. "You do not have to, but I would suggest that you should all switch papers with your partner, let them read what you've written about them. Discuss it. Do not feel obligated, but I feel it would help, like a looking glass into the other person's mind."  
  
Merlin's fingers tighten around his manuscript, pulling it closer to his chest. He can feel Arthur look at him, his own stack of papers tapping against the desk. Chairs scratch against the floor as everyone starts moving, pairing up and even in one brave case, forming a group to pass the papers around. He couldn't do this. What the fuck.  
  
"Did you want to read all the oh so wonderful things I wrote about you?" Arthur asks, words lazy, challenging. The title flashes, as he angles the papers.  
  
_A Look into Merlin Emrys_  
_he's just as complicated as he looks_ _  
by Arthur Pendragon._

Merlin shakes his head. He can't do this. He doesn't want to know, he doesn't want Arthur to know.  
  
"Can I read what _you_ wrote?" Same tone, same challenge.  
  
"No," Merlin blurts, before he can properly think about how he wants to word this, "you won't like it. You'll- you'll hate it, I know you will."  
  
"And how are you so sure?" He's leaning over, into Merlin's space, an eyebrow arched.  
  
"I wrote all about you, remember?" It's a weak attempt at a joke, but it still makes Arthur's lips twitch. "You'll just- you won't like the way I write."

Then, the manuscript is being plucked from his hands, and Arthur is settling down, closer to Merlin than when he started. "Nonsense." But, he doesn't flip through the papers, just stares at the cover, thumb idly tracing the word _king_. "I read some of the weird shit you wrote before, and I quite liked it."  
  
"Oh well." Merlin doesn't know what to say, to stop him. He could say no, could say stop. He knows Arthur would, knows he wouldn't overstep, or push. But, he can't. Can't bring himself to. He wants Arthur to read it, but he also doesn't want to deal with the fallout.  
  
"Can I read it?" He asks again, softer, the challenge leaking away.  
  
Merlin sags back into his seat. "Sure, but," he says, quickly, even as Arthur's fingers are moving to flip it open, "after class. Please. I just, don't think I can handle sitting here watching you read. It's, weird to watch someone read your thoughts."  
  
Arthur hums, thoughtful, and places the papers onto the table. "Alright."

 

\---

 

The next time Merlin sees Arthur, he's studying in the living room of his shared flat. He doesn't stay long, just lets himself in with the key that Merlin thought was a great idea to give him, and then he's towering over Merlin, who's sitting on the floor amongst dozens of books.  
  
"I read your paper."  
  
"Arthur-"  
  
He cuts Merlin off by raising his hand. "I think you should read mine." Is all he says, as he tosses it on top of a teetering stack of books, that promptly fall over at the added weight. With a quick muttered sorry, he's turning and leaving, and Merlin is even more confused about everything than he was before.  
  
Philosophy and the odd Medical book can wait, as Merlin snatches it up and settles into the couch. The story is in a binder now, simple and red with a professional looking label on the front, declaring it's title. With trembling hands, Merlin opens it up, flips past the cover page, and of course Arthur would write an introduction. How the hell did Merlin get such a good grade on his? He left so many things out.  
  
He's thankful Gwaine's at work, or else he'd have to explain the way he treats the pages with such reverence, as he practically devours the words. They're all about him, the way Arthur interprets the way he feels, and it's not the way Merlin writes. There's no double sentences for emphasis or run on words. But it's still so distinctly Arthur, and Merlin swears he can hear the fondness between the lines.  
  
Arthur writes about their first encounter, about the beginning of their friendship, how _he's clumsy and forgetful but he always has a smile ready, no matter who you are. His happiness is rather contagious, no one could deny that._ A warm feeling settles in Merlin's chest.

He flicks through the pages, reading about the ways Arthur sees him, how he tries to explain the way Merlin feels things, so fully. It's such a contrast, Merlin thinks, how he wrote so much about Arthur's trouble with emotions, and here Arthur is, writing about Merlin and how _he experiences emotions in such a big way, like his scrawny body can't handle everything inside of him. It's probably why he flails so much, I'm sure. Because when Merlin feels something, he feels it with every part of him._  
  
There's more, of course, there's so much, written out in words that Arthur had thought of, that Arthur might have spent all night thinking of. There's a bit about Merlin's father, much like he suspected there would be. Words that spell out insecurities and abandonment issues, but none of it is accusing. It doesn't make Merlin feel worse. It makes him feel like Arthur might understand, or well, he's trying to understand.  
  
Merlin soaks everything in, smiling and frowning in equal measure to the things Arthur has to say.  
  
The end bit is what gets him, like a sack of bricks to the chest.

_Merlin has a way to make you feel bigger than you are. I suppose I've said that before, in different sorts of words, but that doesn't make it any less true._

_He has made me feel like much more than I could ever be. He carries a sort of magic in him, the sort that makes it so his spirit is never dampened. Merlin gets sad, just like everyone else, he even cries when it becomes too much. He understands what it's like to be upset and angry, to be tired not just physically but emotionally. He's been through much more than anyone would guess. But, it's the way that he never lets it drag him down, that I consider magic._  
  
_To an extent, I believe it's also the way he can make anyone feel loved, that feels like magic. Merlin collects friends like a fly trap, and it is such a talent. He collects people that are loyal to a fault and love him with no regrets. The levels of love vary, and I have seen them all, from friends that would lay down their lives for him, to people that get caught up in his undertow of carefree laughter and eyes that you swear are your exact favorite shade of blue._  
  
_I can say with certainty I have experienced every type as well. I feel fiercely for him, in ways I cannot very well explain. I'm not good with words, not like he is, and any sentences that border on poetic are nothing more than Merlin rubbing off on me._  
_  
Merlin makes it easy to love him, in every way that counts, and while this is not about me, I can say with an unshakable confidence that before now I have never had something in my life that feels so natural. Like it was the easiest thing for me to fall into. As if I was meant for this._

 

\---

 

 **> i read ur paper**  
** >where are u???**  
** >arthur answer me !!**  
** >ASSHOLE**

Apparently insulting someone in all caps gets their attention, because while every other text Merlin had sent went ignored, a reply finally buzzes through only minutes after his latest.

 _ <my flat_    
  
**> tHANK YOU**  
  
Merlin shoves his phone into his pocket as he takes off for Arthur's flat. He's there in record time, and sure ok his feet are killing him and maybe he should have listened to Arthur and really invested in a bicycle by now, but that's all besides the point. The point right now is that he's banging on Arthur's door, and he's very close to yelling his name if he doesn't answer soon.  
  
Finally though, he does, and he looks. Tired. That's the only word Merlin can easily find to described the way Arthur braces an arm against the doorframe, barefoot in a pair of sweatpants and a university hoodie.  
  
"I'm an _idiot_."  
  
Arthur's eyebrows tick towards his hairline. "That wasn't the greeting I was expecting."  
  
"You're an idiot too! Prat, asshole." Merlin wrestles the door further open, so that he can slip under Arthur's arm, into the living room. He tries to aim a kick at Arthur's calf as he goes, but they know each other too well, and his sneaker catches empty air. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Merlin spins, brandishing the binder.  
  
"Why didn't _you_ tell _me_?" Arthur counters, the door softly clicking shut behind him.  
  
"I'm terrible with saying things! With, making the words in my head make sense when they're in my mouth. But you- oh you're great at speaking and being all charming and making _sense_. So why didn't you say something, you absolute- clotpole!"  
  
"I still refuse to accept that as a word." It's a mild reply, and his voice still sounds weary. Merlin doesn't like it. Arthur's moving, brushing past as he heads further into the living room.  
  
Merlin follows, belatedly toeing off his shoes as he goes. "Am I going to have to kiss you to get you out of this weird funk?"  
  
Arthur stops short, turning to face Merlin, not expecting those words at all. "What?"  
  
"You're obviously upset about something, and even if it has nothing to do with all, _this_ ," Merlin waves the binder around again, for emphasis, "it sure as hell isn't helping. So," he steps forward, using his free hand to tug at Arthur's hoodie. "Would a kiss help?"  
  
Arthur presses his lips together for a second, his hand drifting up, pressing the ring against his bottom lip. "It's just-" he stops, words stilted, "my father."  
  
"Isn't it always." Merlin responds, and he's still waiting for Arthur to answer him about if a kiss would help, but he'll give him time. He looks vulnerable like this, Merlin realizes. The way his shoulders hunch just a tad, the way his clothes are loose and obviously for comfort. There are very few times Merlin has seen Arthur dress for _comfort._  
  
"Yes, I suppose it is. You'd know all about it, wouldn't you?" There's a smile there, just barely, a hint of humor as he references Merlin's paper. He steps closer to Merlin, into his space, and every movement feels soft, feels tentative and new.  
  
Merlin hums in agreement, absently picking at the terribly colored letters on Arthur's hoodie. "Did you want to talk about it?" It’s a question that doesn’t expect an answer, but Merlin asks anyways, on the chance that Arthur does indeed want to share Uther’s latest transgression.

It’s quiet, as Arthur brings a hand up, fingers ghosting along the collar of Merlin’s coat. He shakes his head, and it’s obvious he’s thinking of something, even as Arthur’s hand continues moving, brushing past his collar, across his skin. In the lull, Merlin let’s Arthur think, let’s the cool of his ring slide until it’s resting on the back of his neck. That's what Arthur needs, time to think. An Arthur that’s rushed into a decision is an Arthur that tends to lash out.

Arthur’s other hand comes up, grasping at the edges of Merlin’s jumper. He seems to have come back to himself, eyes sharp, like the sky just after it rains. “Yes.”  
  
“Yes, what?” Merlin asks, a bit dumbly, because Arthur’s hands are on him, and it’s getting a bit hard to think of anything else.

Instead of answering, Arthur is crowding against him, and then their mouths are slotting together.  
  
"I love you too." Arthur breathes, the words like a revelation along Merlin's cheek.  
  
Merlin tugs at the ostentatious gold lettering again, and the binder clatters to the floor as Arthur easily fits into another kiss.


End file.
